Megan Langley. Daughter of the venture capitalist who practically owned the West Coast. “You’re leaving me for her?”
“It’s not like that,” he lied. “This is better for both of us. You deserve someone… simpler.” He had the audacity to look sincere. Then, as if he hadn’t gutted me enough, he added, “Also, the ring. It’s a family heirloom.”
My hands shook as I slipped it from my finger. I placed it gently on the table between us. “Thank you for your honesty,” I managed, my voice a ghost. Then I stood and walked away, past the curious eyes, past the life I thought was mine. When I got back to our apartment, my belongings were already packed, sorted, and stacked by the door like a return-to-sender shipment. His mother’s work, no doubt. Heartbroken, homeless, and with less than a hundred dollars to my name, I did the one thing I hadn’t done in years. I called my foster mom, Margaret.
